


breathe [the feeling I buried in you . . . that i buried in you]

by beetle



Series: The Culladaar and Doribull Romance Series No One Asked For (But You’re Getting It Anyway): [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Brooding, But Adaar is NOT a pushover, Communication, Culladaar, Cullen and the Inquisitor on the Battlements, Dominance, Dry Humping, First Kiss, Groping, Hints of Dominant Cullen, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, More than hints of enthusiastically submissive Male Adaar, Mutual Pining, Nonverbal Communication, Not Really Character Death, POV Cullen Rutherford, Post-Curse of the Black Pearl AU, Public Display of Affection, Public Groping, Relationship Negotiation, Romance, Saying all the right things in the wrong way, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Shut Up Kiss, Touch-Starved, Touching, True Love, kissus interruptus, redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 04:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14253144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: My take on the Cullen/Inquisitor kiss on Skyhold’s battlements. A first kiss-redux—or asecond first kiss, if you will. But, kisses aside, the title says it all.





	breathe [the feeling I buried in you . . . that i buried in you]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThreeWhiskeyLunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Cullen Rutherford POV and AU in that he’s bisexual. Angst and _second_ first kisses, see tags for everything else. Title from the Greenwheel [lyric](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/greenwheel/breathe.html).

 

**I played the fool today.**

**And I can see us vanishing into the crowd,**

**Longing for home again.**

**But home is a feeling I've buried in you.**

**I'm alright, I'm alright,**

**It only hurts when I breathe.**

**And I can't ask for things to be still again.**

**No, I can't ask for you to offer the world through your eyes.**

**Longing for home again.**

**But home is a feeling I've buried in you, oh. . . .**

**I'm alright, I'm alright.**

**It only hurts when I breathe.**

 

 

“So . . . it’s a, er, clement day, isn’t it, Inquisitor?” Commander Cullen Rutherford noted quite nervously, unable to catch an adequate breath. He’d been struggling to since Kaaras had showed up at his office and asked to speak to him alone, then increasingly breathless since they’d left Cullen’s office for the battlements. Though the flights of stairs climbed had had absolutely nothing to do with that, Cullen’s pathetic, stammered attempts at chitchat and conversational non-starters during the climb certainly hadn’t helped. “Very . . . erm . . . very clement, yes.”

 

The reply he received, after a brief, amiably puzzled lacuna was: “ _What_?”

 

Though Cullen didn’t— _hadn’t_ looked over at Kaaras once as they strolled the battlements—with a respectable distance between them that nonetheless did _nothing_ to mitigate the waves and flushes of heat that rushed and tingled across Cullen’s skin—he could feel that bright, hopeful-earnest gaze light on him and linger curiously.

 

He blushed, and the rushing tingles tripled in frequency and intensity. Even though the day was relatively cool for the second week of spring and the final week of a dry, but cold Drakonis, between his uniform and armor—and Kaaras’ unnerving close-farness—he felt overwarm and stifled. Conspicuous.

 

He spontaneously started to reach out to Kaaras, either to take his hand or put an arm around his waist, but weeks of fighting such unprofessional instincts—no matter how strong and right-feeling—saw that hand and arm drift away from Kaaras, much like Cullen managed to do. He settled his hand on the back of his own neck for a rub-scratch-rub that helped his composure not even a little. Finally, he stopped their perambulation along the battlement and half-turned to Kaaras, whose gaze he could still feel. The warmth and brightness of it rivaled the sun overhead.

 

Cullen squinted absently at the hem of Kaaras’ jerkin and tried to discreetly gulp down more air. Only for that air to come gusting back out having not helped his state. He still felt winded and out-of-sorts.

 

Restless and rattled, he shifted his squinting stare off to the mountains in which Skyhold was nestled. Such was the majesty and breathtaking nature of the view commanded by this particular parapet—truly, from this vantage-point, the castle did seem to be holding back the sky—Cullen was sometimes convinced that if he just gazed hard enough and long enough, he could see all of Ferelden, the home in which he hadn’t set foot in over a decade, reaching forever eastward.

 

Or, if he turned west, he could see all of Orlais, his home for just over a year, spread before him like a tactical map that seemed to strain to the very corners of the world. . . .

 

But that was for when Cullen was brooding alone. On this day, right next to him . . . _right next to him_ , Kaaras stood—a far more distracting and entrancing view than any homeland or empire. _Kaaras stood by Cullen’s side_ , as ever he had: vivid-bright, solid-warm, and loyal-strong. His presence was more than desired, it was _required_.

 

That Cullen Rutherford loved Kaaras Adaar dearly and beyond all sensible measure of the word was the truest thing about him and the only one worth knowing, as far as he was concerned. That love was all the redemption in Creation and Cullen was given over to it _at least_ until the breaking of the world, itself, and probably for the eternity that stretched beyond that breaking.

 

 _Orlais is a dazzling bauble of an empire, to be sure. But it falls far short of other gems now within my purview_ , he thought, smiling just a little as he sneaked a peek, at last, at the Inquisitor. At _Kaaras_. As usual, his breath caught even as cold-crisp air seemed to over-fill his lungs. It stoked the perpetual twin fires of love and devotion that consumed his heart, yet somehow made it stronger.

 

For once, Kaaras wasn’t dressed in his so-called “Herald-wear,” nor in his traveling clothes of tough and weather-proof leathers, brigantine, and bits of armor. He was wearing a simple, homespun woolen jerkin—greener than the heart of summer, but still not as green and vivid as Kaaras’ changeable hazel eyes seemed in the stark, spring daylight. His breeches were of scuffed, but otherwise well-cared-for black leather: not quite form-fitting, but they favored Kaaras as much as the jerkin. As much as everything in Creation seemed to.

 

And _everything_ about Kaaras drew Cullen in and dazzled him—far more than any empire. From the curling, copper-plated horns that seemed to catch and gather light, to Kaaras’ ginger-fire hair, which seemed to do the same. It was worn unbound and unbraided today, and Kaaras wasn’t even bothering with constantly, irritably tucking it behind his ears, as he usually did on the rare occasions he left his hair free. The still-chilly breeze lifted it in strands and wisps and locks, and it flew lazily into Kaaras' angular, freckled-boyish face.

 

His striking height, and broad shoulders and upper chest, tapered elegantly—appealingly—to a long, trim waist that Cullen itched to bracket with his hands. Then slide those hands admiringly down to Kaaras’ narrow hips, which flared just a bit at the tops of _extremely_ distracting thighs and long, dancer-graceful legs.

 

It’d been just over three weeks since Cullen had, for the first and only time, felt those thighs clamped around his hips and those calves linked and locked behind his legs. _Three weeks_ since his achy hands had had the divine privilege of sliding from Kaaras’ hips to his _arse_ . . . for which even besotted and yearning _Cullen_ hadn’t yet found the right words to describe its perfection-trifecta of firmness, fullness, and proportion.

 

Three weeks, _only_ , since Cullen had last touched Kaaras in any way. Yet it felt as if it’d been an Age. . . .

 

“You broody-boot. Quit frowning, or I shall have to kiss you repeatedly and vigorously until you stop,” Kaaras teased with overdone sternness and piety.

 

Cullen flushed a bit and his brows lifted a touch. But his consumed heart soared with relief and renewed hope, up into the bright, blue day. His breathing eased markedly, and the smile he fought and only barely won against wanted to be huge and twitching. “Er. You _do_ realize that if frowning _earns_ me kisses I’ll only frown more, yes?” he asked, glancing over at Kaaras, whose small, fond smile became a grin. His cheeks were flushed lightly, just enough that the freckles dusting them were barely visible.

 

“Well, I never claimed that I thought my dire threats and promises through _before_ I made them. And anyway, I’m . . . rather desperate for _any_ excuses or reasons to kiss you. Have been since day one.”

 

“I see.” Now, Cullen’s brows lifted halfway up his forehead, even as he lost the Expression War not to a smile, but to a tiny, pleased smirk. “Have you also been operating under the mistaken assumption that I’ll ever require _either_ , when it comes to the kisses you bestow?”

 

“Perhaps I have, at that.” Kaaras chuckled rather ruefully. “I’m so bloody paranoid about putting you off me entirely by being too bold or pressuring you, that I . . . I’m trying to show restraint and reserve. To err on the side of caution, rather than on the side of my usual reckless impulsivity and abandon.”

 

Cullen’s lifted brow furrowed ponderously as the last twenty-two days took on clearer and less confusing context. “Ah. That would certainly explain your . . . discretion over the past few weeks.” And although he meant the observation to be light and playful, in keeping with Kaaras’ mood and tone, it came out rather faltering and grim. Even the tiny smirk settled back into Cullen’s usual stolid affect.

 

“Yes. _Kaaras Adaar and discretion_ : two absolutes that have no business meeting in the practical world! _Eugh_!” Kaaras chuckled again—wry and self-mocking—and shuddered melodramatically.

 

Cullen blanched as he realized how disparaging his prior remark must have come across. “I . . . that is, _no_ —I m-meant . . . ugh. _Maker_ ,” he grunted, his face abominably hot and unattractively red, no doubt. He winced as they passed from under the shade of a decorative arch and back into the light of day, cursing the sun silently, but roundly for making his blush that much more noticeable. But problem-solving by scurrying back under the shade of the arch or of Skyhold’s main bulk would be questionable, at best, and likely make him look like more of a fool even in Kaaras’ kindly-inclined eyes. So, Cullen sighed, shoulders slumping a bit, and added another rub-scratch-rub to his medley of anxious fidgeting and staggered-deep breathing. “There was something you wished to discuss, Kaa—er, Inquisitor?”

 

“Hmm, yes, there was, _Commander_. That clement weather you mentioned a minute ago _is_ quite worth firsthand examination,” Kaaras confirmed serenely, turning to face Cullen. He was smiling expectantly, as if charmed and amused, his eyes flickering green-gold in the undiluted light of early afternoon. “Why _else_ would I ask my very charming, extremely endearing, and _devastatingly_ gorgeous advisor to join me for a stroll along the battlements? On such a _clement_ day?”

 

“Er.” Cullen’s face felt as if there were live coals being stoked directly under the skin and he found himself staring off into the distance once more. Toward Val Royeaux. “That is, I . . . ah. . . .”

 

“Cullen,” Kaaras said gently and affectionately, his voice far warmer than even Cullen’s ridiculous face. And when Cullen managed to meet that green-gold gaze again, it, too, was so very warm. That warmth made Cullen stand a little straighter and his shoulders forego their slump—which Kaaras seemed to notice. His beaming, beautiful smile widened even more. “You are trying _entirely_ too hard to win what’s already yours. You needn’t be nervous or worried just because I haven’t pinned you to several flat surfaces and snogged the lips off your face. Yet.”

 

The breathless, dark-bright intensity of that _yet_ flooded Cullen’s entire body with prickly-tingling heat, as did the look in Kaaras intent and suddenly smoldering gaze. Cullen’s breath caught in a slight but choked gasp as he swayed toward Kaaras without quite taking a step. Kaaras, however, his expression naked and heated and _hungry_ , moved decisively toward Cullen, until Cullen was looking up into those glowing eyes and inhaling that gentle-pure, embriums scent.

 

Just as Kaaras’ scent was of summer and twilight, so he’d taste of a crisp, fall morning: rich and sweet, with intriguing hints of cider-tartness.

 

He’d _taste_. . . .

 

. . . exactly as he’d tasted twenty-two days ago, if not better, finer, _sweeter_. Twenty-two days ago . . . when Cullen had promised them both that he’d try to make this . . . powerful spark between them _work_. But then, had also asked for some time to pull _himself_ together before making that attempt.

 

At what had felt like the absolute nadir of his lyrium-withdrawal—even as it was the height of all the hope and optimism of his life because _Kaaras Adaar loved him_ —Cullen had forced himself to be cautious and careful and _slow_ for both their sakes. Even though he’d been wanting with all that he had and was, and for longer than he’d have ever guessed he could endure, to make all haste into Kaaras’ welcoming arms and rest there. Claim all the love and desire and _need_ those arms represented—claim _the only home he wanted, yes_ —but simply rest, too.

 

Simply be.

 

But Cullen hadn’t yet come close to earning or deserving that rest and home. Hadn’t even come close to being certain he could properly _care_ for them. For those arms. For _Kaaras_. Couldn’t even be reasonably optimistic that his lately quiescent withdrawal symptoms would remain so, rather than return with a vengeance, and the chaotic, dark will to destroy Cullen and everything he touched. . . .

 

Everything he _loved_.

 

Thus, before Cullen could even consciously debate the prudence and necessity of the action, he forced himself to turn his face slightly away from Kaaras’ and take a step back—only one step, but decisive and unmistakable. Despite his heavy breathing, Cullen’s mind and world span and trembled, as if he was on the verge of passing out from lack of air.

 

Meanwhile, Kaaras’ eyes widened with hurt and frustration, then he blinked a few times and turned slightly away, too.

 

“Right,” he said, laughing with strained and rueful mirth. “I, ah, see I was right to be worried about my too-forward nature being . . . off-putting.” He turned away even more, half-toward Val Royeaux, just as Cullen had. His profile was noble and regal, even with the chilly breeze whipping shiny-bright, ginger tendrils and locks into his face. “My reach has ever exceeded my grasp. A fine enough trait for an Inquisitor, I suppose, but a rather unfortunate one for a suitor. Please, forgive me, Cullen.”

 

“Inquisitor—I mean, _Kaaras_ ,” Cullen began, blanching, then flushing, then kicking himself for the way Kaaras flinched then hunched in on himself, as if to protect himself from some dreadful onslaught.

 

And Cullen readily acknowledged, if only to himself, that his attempts at honesty and intimacy—few though they thankfully were and had always been—constantly went awry in ways that mortified and stymied him, while hurting and pushing-away those he cared for.

 

“There’s nothing to forgive, Kaaras,” he gritted slowly, stiff but limp—useless. Kaaras’ chuckle was small and once more self-mocking.

 

“Isn’t there?” he cast a quick glance at Cullen, then looked away again. “I tend to let my hopes and dreams and . . . desires run away with me, Cullen. I know I should keep them in check—hope for the best, yes, but expect the worst—yet when it comes to the things I want most, my heart races ten leagues ahead of my common sense no matter how sensible I try to be. And certain . . . _other bits_ race considerably ahead of my _heart_.”

 

Cullen didn’t have to see Kaaras’ face to know the other man was blushing at least as deep as Cullen had so recently. The castigation in his assumed Free Marches-drawl was deceptively light and dismissive, and made Cullen yearn for the lilting, familiar near-brogue that Kaaras occasionally let slip when flustered or distracted.

 

As he stared at the upright, intrepid . . . lonely figure the man he loved cut against the back-drop of big sky and Southern Thedas, Cullen opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what would come out, only that it, too, would very likely be wrong and hurt Kaaras further.

 

“Do you really believe you’re the only one who’s left his common sense and caution well-behind, twitching and expiring in the dust, Kaaras?” he rasped out, every honest, breathless, _helpless_ word a battle in which neither side felt like the winning side. When Kaaras glanced at him, wary and with that brave-miserable face, Cullen sighed and turned away. _Walked away_ for a few steps, then turned and walked right back, rejoining Kaaras at the ledge, though some feet further along the battlements. He felt Kaaras’ eyes on him, attentive, patient, and giving nothing else away. “I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought of what I would say to you, should I . . . should _we_ find ourselves in this situation.”

 

After a pointed beat, Kaaras looked away, again, across the vast Orlesian Empire. Perhaps he could see further than Cullen. Or perhaps he was simply tired of looking upon that which frustrated and disappointed him and perforce was seeking a more inspiring and pleasing view.

 

“And what situation is that, Commander?” he asked, soft and sardonic and weary.

 

“The same situation I’ve been in for well over a year, now, Kaaras: wanting to take you in my arms, and hold and kiss you until my strength gives out,” Cullen said, rubbing his tense, cold neck—yet again—and screwing his stupid, hot face into a scowl that could have curdled a significant portion of Orlais. All of him felt ridiculous and overheated, and the added bright-keen regard that was Kaaras’ returned attention didn’t help soothe that at all. “One of many things I need and want, and would give anything to _have_. With _you_.”

 

Another wary beat, during which the only sound other than the stiff breeze was Cullen’s loud, labored breathing. Then Kaaras huffed, curt and irritated. “And what’s stopping you from _having_ what you claim to need and want, Cullen Rutherford? After everything I’ve admitted to, and offered and promised you— _pledged to you forever_ , and for whenever you wish to have it and me? What bloody Archdemon is keeping you so far away when I’m standing _right by your side, as ever_? What more must I say or do or _feel_ for you to realize that my love— _my heart_ —is neither inconstant nor a liar?”

 

Kaaras’ normally well-modulated voice was breaking and cracking—shaking with hurt and frustration and anger. But unlike other moments of consternation between them, Kaaras’ Free Marches-drawl was perfect and unwavering, with no hints of that near-brogue Cullen sometimes held his breath to hear.

 

Hanging his head, Cullen sighed, his formerly hot face gone cold as dead ash. He dared not look at Kaaras, for fear he would see exhaustion, disgust, and disappointment . . . the final return of Kaaras’ common sense. A return they both deserved for entirely different reasons. “I . . . you’re the Inquisitor, Kaaras, and we’re in the middle of a war—” he stopped when Kaaras made a soft, shocked sound of pained disbelief. Cullen looked over at the younger man before he could stop himself. But Kaaras was already turning away, clearly meaning to stalk off back the way he’d come.

 

For the first time and even after everything, Kaaras was _walking away_ , at last. Just as Cullen had long thought would be best for at least one of them. And it should have been a moment of grim relief and acceptance. Of duty fulfilled and satisfaction that the man he loved more than anyone or anything was finally being pragmatic. Walking away from Cullen, away from the fragile-bright spark that’d bloomed between the two of them . . . away from the beautiful, domestic, _un-bloody-likely_ future Kaaras had mused about them sharing someday, with a farmstead in South Reach and bloody _geese_.

 

 _Someday_ . . . after all the Breach-nonsense had been put to bed. As if there was, indeed, such a future waiting for them, warm and bright and safe, and all they had to do was live long enough to make it happen.

 

Like a dash of cold water, Cullen understood that, for all his faith, belief, and hope, this was one dream Kaaras _didn’t_ believe he could make happen. He had never believed, not really. He’d _always_ assumed that stopping Corypheus would require at the very least giving his life. He’d never exactly hidden that assumption, though he was a past-master at deflecting discussion of his endgame plans regarding the Magister. But Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar, the Herald of Andraste, did and would always do his duty without hesitation, complaint, or attempts to skive-off . . . even to his certain death.

 

But this . . . was different. _This_ despair had nothing to do with Kaaras at last railing against what he saw as tragic, but inevitable and necessary, and everything to do with his fundamentally shaken faith in Cullen.

 

Now that Cullen was experiencing a true taste of the loss of Kaaras Adaar’s bedrock-firm, once immutable faith and belief in, and _hope for_ him, he could have laughed at past iterations of himself. At his own mealy-mouthed whinging and brooding; at his mistaking of Kaaras’ previous frustrations and exasperation with him, for _this_ dark and swirling abyss that’d opened at Cullen’s feet. The gulf between them seemed endless, already, but was still widening exponentially, even as Kaaras walked away. . . .

 

Cullen didn’t even realize he was panting and moving quickly to close the gap between them. His own hope and faith and need carried him across the wide and abyssal expanse that sought to separate them and possibly destroy them. He didn’t realize he meant to put everything he had or could have had, and everything he was and could have possibly been, on the line simply for Kaaras to not walk away from him. Never mind Kaaras remaining so patiently, faithfully, and hopefully by his side.

 

But then, Cullen’s hand was on Kaaras’ bicep, reluctant for a moment, them firmly clasping the solid muscle and soft-fuzzy wool under his palm. Kaaras paused but seemed merest moments from pulling away and striding off. He didn’t even look back at Cullen, but his jaw was tight and there was . . . arcane energy crackling continuously between his copper-plated horns, up and down their length, terse and light-blue. It made every hair on Cullen’s body stand on end.

 

“I’m _afraid_ , Kaaras . . . alright? Not of any war or Archdemon or Magister. I’m afraid that . . . you’ll see me for what I _really_ am and come to your senses.” Cullen growled in a disgusted rush, forcing out his truth on a single, released breath. Not to _keep_ Kaaras—he knew losing the other man was a looming inevitability and one that would serve them both right—but because the last thing Kaaras deserved was thinking that he, himself, was somehow at fault for Cullen’s missishness and spinelessness. As Cullen clutched at the tense, toned bicep in his clasp, he addressed himself to Kaaras’ green-clad shoulder, which was at eye-level, and all that was available to focus on since Kaaras refused to face him. “I’m too bloody craven to risk your rejection, even when the risk means maybe winning everything I’ve ever wanted. Too afraid to risk your disappointment. Or your _pity_. Or your realization that whatever it is you see when you look at me is . . . but wishful thinking and fleeting fantasy.”

 

This time, the silent beat felt like an eternity, one characterized by Cullen’s anxiety, mortification, despair, and near-gibbering terror.

 

That quiet pause was as deep and unreadable as it was long, and when Kaaras finally, _finally_ spoke, Cullen gasped in a breath that quickly puffed right back out. And he kept doing it, more because it helped his shaky temperament, than his confused body. If such had been in him, he would have sobbed with relief and gratitude. Would have fallen to his knees and pressed his face to Kaaras’ hand as if hoping for forgiveness. Or a benediction.

 

“I’ve sworn to you that I would wait for as long as you need. And I have held to that. I will _always_ hold to that. I would wait _forever_ for you, rather than fall immediately into anyone else’s arms. That will _never_ change, Cullen. Never.” Kaaras said certainly, but wearily, hanging his head as the wind obscured his profile with that shiny, ginger-gold hair. His bicep was no longer tense under Cullen’s hand, but it wasn’t relaxed either. “But that doesn’t mean you get to throw my love and loyalty—my _respect and consideration for your struggles_ —in my face because _you’re_ scared. Because even now and after everything, putting your heart on the line feels like some horrid zero-sum game at which you’re destined to lose. Don’t punish _me_ for _your_ cowardice and faithlessness. Not when we’re both already suffering from time and distance between what we have now—barely—and what we want. Or _wanted._ ”

 

Yet another word on which worlds and fates turned, that _wanted_. So much so, that Cullen’s instinctive responses of haughty defensiveness, spiteful resentment . . . and shamed, but unhesitating agreement with Kaaras’ truths and observations, were utterly eclipsed by the magnitude of a far more powerful and devastating certainty.

 

The lodestone of Kaaras’ faith in _Cullen_ was more than shaken . . . it was crumbling.

 

Kaaras _would_ always love Cullen, as he’d claimed—that, Cullen no longer doubted. But what was even _eternal_ love without faith? Without belief? Without _hope_?

 

What was _Kaaras Adaar_ without those things?

 

 _Neither of us will ever find out, if I have my say_ , Cullen decided with resolve firmer than any he’d ever felt or pledged. Even the vows he’d taken as part of becoming a Templar hadn’t rung so clarion or settled so deep. Hadn’t had the weight and power of his entire being so solidly and immovably behind it.

 

“ _Want_ ,” he corrected hoarsely, squeezing Kaaras’ arm until Kaaras risked a glance at him. He was scowling, but his face was pale, and his eyes were red and wet. Cullen swallowed, even though his throat ached abominably. He repeated himself, this time nodding and holding Kaaras’ gaze as desperately as he held his arm. “Want. That is . . . _I still_ . . . if _y-you_ still. . . .”

 

Kaaras didn’t give even a little . . . didn’t blink or even breathe, it seemed, never mind replying.

 

“Please, stay,” Cullen implored, letting his hand fall away from Kaaras. He _begged_ , in a voice that didn’t shake, but felt as if it should have been and was. As did the rest of him. “I’m afraid that for whatever reason, you’ll leave me. And I’ll have forgotten how to live without you—or the hope of you—and that there’ll be no coming back from that. Nor any reason to even try. I’m afraid. . . .” sighing, Cullen shook his head as urgent, unhelpful breaths whistled in and out of his nose. “ _I’m afraid_. I don’t want you to give up on me or leave me, not ever, and yet everything I do and everything I am seems Abyss-bent on pushing you away and driving you off.”

 

Kaaras’ piercing eyes seemed darker than the heart of the oldest forest . . . and he still hadn’t blinked. “Is that really what _you_ believe? That everything about you— _your experiences, deeds, and character—_ are designed to put _me_ off?”

 

Cullen nodded once, stiffly, his stomach starting to churn. “That’s what I _know_ , yes.”

 

“Then you’re a bigger Maker-damned _eedjit_ than I’d previously realized, that’s for sure,” Kaaras said without inflection, then huffed again. “You _must be_ if you haven’t gotten it through that thick, Fereldan skull of yours that I’m not going anywhere just because you frustrate and exasperate me on a minute-to-minute basis and exercise my self-control and self-restraint in more ways than just the carnal. _I’m still here, Cullen_.” He turned to face Cullen fully, his face still wary but his eyes shining and brimming with more than tears. “After pining, frustration, vexation, hopelessness, being kept at several arms’-lengths, being rejected, and yes, being pushed away—through and after heartache and heart _break_ , that heart is still yours. _I_ am still yours. And I’m _still here_.”

 

After more than a minute of gaping shock and realization— _understanding_ that managed to burrow-down core-deep—Cullen let out a slow, soft exhale. “So, you are,” he acknowledged, agreed, and accepted. _Believed and knew_ , and for the first time in weeks—months— _years_ —caught his breath on a titanic and sustaining inhale, which came slowly sighing back out.

 

Kaaras didn’t smile, but his mouth twitched at the corners and the hard-intense light in his eyes softened and gentled to something warm. Fond. _Hopeful_. “ _Bloody eedjit_ ,” he reiterated in that missed lilt, and Cullen’s mouth also twitched. It was aiming for a smile but fell far short. Not because of displeasure or unhappiness, but because his full-focus and concentration leveled on an important objective always turned his face into a rather grim and dour mask.

 

And _just now_ , Cullen was focused and concentrating on Kaaras’ _mouth_ , turned down in a slight frown, but still mobile and distracting. Still _lovely_ , with sweet-soft lips—oh, _how sweet and soft_ —that had, not so long ago and yet forever-ago, trembled against and pressed silent, reverent sonnets to Cullen’s own.

 

As Cullen bent his entire being on Kaaras’ perfect and waiting mouth, he only distantly noted the surprised exhalation that mouth released as he pushed Kaaras back against the ledge and held him there by his upper arms. At last, Kaaras blinked, his eyes widening with hope that was still far too leavened with wariness.

 

“It just . . . it seems so much to ask for. To _want_ ,” Cullen marveled, winded again and a bit dazed. His gaze dropped to Kaaras’ lips once more as he stepped closer, the tips of his boots bumping the tips of Kaaras’ boots, the closeness of their not-quite-flush bodies creating a seal of intimacy and warmth between them. Of _heat_. “ _You_ are so much to want, Kaaras. More than I ever dared to—”

 

“Commander!”

 

Cullen had barely risen on his toes—and Kaaras had barely leaned down—enough to mitigate the dwindling height-difference between their mouths when they were startled apart by the intrusion of duty. In the form of a corporal whose voice Cullen recognized, even if he couldn’t at the moment recall his name. Kaaras cut off a soft, bereft groan and turned his deeply flushed face away, off toward Ferelden. Every inch of him was thrumming with want and frustration that Cullen could not only feel, but reciprocated intensely.

 

After taking a moment to master himself—and his instinct to growl, grab the corporal, then toss him right over the ledge—Cullen glowered and turned to face the approaching man.

 

“ _What_?” he barked, his glower turning into an outright glare as the distracted and oblivious soldier stopped a few feet away, eyes on the handful of paperwork he’d clearly been _desperate_ to foist on his superior, if he’d tracked Cullen all the way up here.

 

“I have a copy of Sister Leliana’s report, Ser!” the Corporal— _Haglund_ was his name, Cullen now recalled, and probably not providentially for the unlucky man—said, at last looking up from the papers in his gloved left hand. “You wanted it delivered to you without delay!”

 

When Cullen’s only reply was more narrow-eyed glaring, Haglund blinked then halted his right hand, which he’d started to raise for an automatic salute. He took in Cullen’s lowering, very displeased expression, then visibly swallowed when the expression grew even more displeased.

 

Haglund’s confused blue eyes ticked to Kaaras—who was being purposely, possessively blocked by Cullen’s now martial and aggressive stance and affect—as if just noticing the flustered Inquisitor. The corporal’s eyes widened further, then ticked back to Cullen’s face with startled realization. He paled suddenly and alarmingly.

 

“Erm. Or, delivered _to your office_ , without delay, Commander! Yes! Which is, er, where I shall leave it, Ser! In your office, on your desk! And I’ll, ah, pay closer attention to your directives, in future, Ser!”

 

Corporal Haglund began backing away slowly, carefully, still wide-eyed and gazing at Cullen as if at a dangerous animal. When that gaze drifted back toward Kaaras, Cullen, still glaring, took a single—admittedly threatening—step toward the gawking-retreating corporal, who finally gulped, saluted smartly, then practically ran back the way he’d come, along the battlements and into the castle. He slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind him with a dull but reverberating _whumpf_.

 

His glare fading quickly back to a glower, then back to that determined, focused-concentrating near-scowl, Cullen turned back to the best, most thrilling view of all.

 

“Timing of the bloody Maker,” Kaaras was muttering ruefully, his face still flushed and turned away as he leaned back against the ledge in a dispirited slouch. He shook his head and sighed. “I understand, if you need to—”

 

That was as far as he got before Cullen moved quickly back into their shared space with clear intent, reaching up to cup Kaaras’ face in his hands. As Kaaras faced him fully, once more, Cullen drew him into the kiss that’d been so rudely and idiotically interrupted a minute ago.

 

Kaaras gasped, but the persistent kiss shortly turned it into a sweetly-muffled moan, which Cullen experienced as a yearning-thrilling vibration that made the roots of his teeth quake pleasantly. Kaaras’ hands settled lightly about his waist, all want and knife’s-edge restraint as Cullen’s body pressed into his and pinned him suddenly—also rather aggressively—to the stony ledge. Cullen’s hands quickly found their way to Kaaras’ hips where they squeezed and gripped and telegraphed Cullen’s desire for more. For anything. For everything.

 

Even so, all that mattered—in this world and every other—was Kaaras’ summer-and-embriums scent and the autumn-cider-spice _taste_ of his mouth, the plush-wet give of his lips, and the tickling tease of his tongue. Also, the genteel, but desperate moans Cullen licked, sucked, and nipped from those tempting, tortuous lips. And, finally, the enthusiastic acquiescence of the tall-strong body submitting so ardently and urgently to his every demand.

 

When Cullen’s arousal was far too obvious too hide—even had he been trying to hide it, rather than grinding with slow and focused intent against Kaaras’ left thigh—and Kaaras’ requited interest was an intriguing, steel-hard line against Cullen’s abdomen, he at last regained some of his sense of decorum and propriety. He deepened and intensified the kiss for long, searing moments, pressed tight and flush against Kaaras and pouring every ounce of his yearning and need into one pointed thrust . . . then slowly, regretfully ended both. Kaaras didn’t try to prolong either contact, but he whimpered so hungrily and longingly, Cullen was quite heartened and bolstered.

 

“I’m . . . sorry.” He leaned in once again, panting his instinctive apology on Kaaras’ wet, plush, still-parted lips. He was, however, careful to keep a few heated centimeters between his lower body and Kaaras’. “That was, erm—” _unprofessional, greedy, sinful, selfish, uncalled-for, **perfect**_ “—really nice,” he settled on with a shy, but hopeful smile that he pressed lightly to Kaaras’ mouth, which also turned up in a small smile.

 

“Actually, _that_ was a _kiss_ , if I’m not mistaken,” Kaaras said innocently, though the tone was belied by the hands that settled intently on Cullen’s arse, and _squeezed_ until Cullen pressed and pinned him to the ledge, once again. Humming smugly, Kaaras leaned back just enough to see Cullen’s face. His own smile was playfully wicked, unbearably sultry, and promisingly ravenous. “Hmm, and then some. But I can’t _really_ be sure, though . . . it was all a blur, you see. . . .”

 

Cullen’s laugh was sudden and loud, uncontrolled and breathless in the best of ways. Utterly elated. “Erm. Yes, well,” he managed to say, apropos of absolutely nothing—and certainly not apropos of Kaaras’ firm-warm-strong body flush against his own once more. Or of the siren-song beckoning of those sweet-soft-curving lips.

 

When Kaaras’ hands on his arse urged him _closer, still_ —and his needy, sybaritic moans inspired Cullen’s busy hips to drive against him slower, but _harder_ —Cullen not only didn’t resist, but he went happily, claiming a home on Kaaras’ thigh just as Kaaras made _himself_ at home against Cullen’s abdomen.

 

And for quite some time, there were no more words, but the same silent sonnets of three weeks ago, and the sounds of desire and need, satisfaction and relief that they both uttered from their tired souls. And Cullen—for once and for the moment—was brave enough to _keep_ claiming what was, indeed, already his and perhaps always had been.

 

And, perhaps—Maker willing— _always would be_.

 

 

**My window through which nothing hides**

**And everything sings—**

**I'm counting the signs and cursing the miles in between. . . .**

**But home . . . is a feeling I've buried in you—**

**That I've buried in you—**

**I'm alright, I'm alright.**

**It only hurts when I breathe.**

**I'm alright, I'm alright.**

**It only hurts when I breathe.**

**When I breathe. . . .**

**Yeah, it only hurts when I breathe.**

**When I breathe—**

**It only hurts when I breathe. . . .**

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

>  **  
> **  
> Credits/Sources/Thanks:  
>   
> 
> **Powered most notably by: Greenwheel’s[Breathe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZRmBPXVUl8)**
> 
> Thanks to ThreeWhiskeyLunch for: “broody boot.”
> 
> And thanks, as ever, to The Writers’ Block for cheerleading, and for ALL THE WRITE ADVICES. Any mistakes or suckiness are entirely the author’s doing. Said author was initially working on the “next” fic in this Culladaar series, of which this angsty take on Cullen and the Inquisitor’s battlements kiss was going to be chapter one. Or part of it. But it didn’t wanna play ball—decided to be an asshole and do its own, encapsulated thing. So, here it is: a transitional standalone about a second first kiss. “Successes, Sweetnesses, and Sorrows” will have to manage without it (or perhaps with a _third_ first kiss???), but, hopefully, not without the patient goodwill of you few diehard readers  <3
> 
> [Your bug Tumbles here](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com) :-)


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